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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26734819">Hey There Little Red Riding Hood, You Sure Are Looking Good.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyAMenace/pseuds/LiathLining'>LiathLining (ActuallyAMenace)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Come Inflation, Copious Amounts of Come, Copious Amounts of Cum, Eventual Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Gratuitous Smut, Himbo Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Knotting, Light Angst, M/M, Monsters, Red Riding Hood Elements, because geralt doesnt know how to use words or his feelings, boys we gotta fuck the potion out of him, cat potion geralt, feral geralt, jaskier flirting, potion high</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:06:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,657</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26734819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyAMenace/pseuds/LiathLining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt should have known that there would be trouble from the moment he laid his eyes on that damned red cloak.  He only wishes he knew that it would be his fault Jaskier ended up in the territory of a dragon.</p><p>Inspired By https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ia8j8YMtfdo</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>225</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This has been in my WIP since December.  Everything is done, just needs to be cleaned up.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was late in the morning for their usual departure on the road, the sun high, and only a few clouds in the distance above the steady flow of cool fall air.  The pair of them  had made use of the inn’s wool mattress the night before, making sure their money was repaid in sound sleep that wouldn't again be seen till after the next town, wherever that might take them.  The next point of civilization on the road was more than two days travel according to the barmaid, her smile dimming after failing to entice them into another night under the inn’s roof.  Coin was short, and the Witcher was restless, so it only made sense for them to head out. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Geralt was enjoying a quiet conversation with Roach, a rarity unless the bard was either asleep or getting himself into trouble, when the slamming of the inn’s door signaled the end of his quiet reflection.  The witcher sighed, turning his eyes to the heavens for some askance of peace while Roach, the traitor, perked her ears up at the now familiar sound of Jaskier’s gait.  The mare pulled away from large leather gloved hands, expecting the usual treat with the bearing of teeth in what might be either a grin or a snarl as she lipped at the bard’s shirtsleeves.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier obligingly held up his end of the relationship with a slightly bruised apple and half a carrot, both disappearing rather swiftly into the flat toothed maw.  She nosed at him for more, leaning heavily into his chest as if she might sniff out any hidden rations.  He spoke to her like a village’s doting mother to her children, and Geralt rolled his eyes as she blatantly sought more attention from fine fingered hands.</p><p> </p><p>The Witcher was too distracted with a final check of their saddle bags to notice the bard's appearance beneath his usual chatter, until a flash of color caught his attention from his peripheral vision.</p><p> </p><p>“What…” His voice was like ground stone, rough with irritation.  “<em>What</em> are you wearing?”</p><p> </p><p>The bard was dressed in dull fashion compared to his other outfits, in a doublet and breeches as black as ink, spattered with tiny flecks of silver thread and cut crystal that resembled stars.  He had never seen him in something so dark, though he had to admit that it suited him, making his eyes shine and his skin take on a certain sort of glow under the light of the sun.  Geralt banished that thought quickly, moving to more rational considerations with the grinding of teeth.  The Path called for practicality, naturally bringing the numerous reasons this was a bad idea to the front of his mind.</p><p> </p><p>The shine would draw any eye without question, and with the sun as bright as it was, it would be like a lit match in a dark room, or that was what he told himself.  Geralt was internally analyzing as to if it was supposed to be a parody of his own armor when the other male put on his traveling cloak. Gods above it was even more garish.  </p><p> </p><p>The heavy material was of the same crimson as fresh spilt blood, and while the Witcher couldn’t find himself arguing the need for it with the chill that would continue to set in as they traveled, the color alone would practically shout that there was a presence of coin, or meat and bones to be feasted on.  Paired with the basket of rations he had charmed away from one of the barmaids the night before, he looked something akin to that of an illumination portrait out of a book of fairytales.  Geralt’s spiraling mood pulled him away from the obvious joke about a certain red hood and a wolf by Jaskier puffing up in preparation  for one of his tirades.  </p><p> </p><p>“What Geralt?”  The bard sounded defensive already, fine boned hands landing aggressively atop his hips.  “You don’t like the green, you don’t like the blue.  I suppose black is reserved for brooding Witchers without a sense of humor?” There’s a flash in those blue eyes that tells him he’s being baited, aided by the flamboyant tone of his voice when he speaks.  “My color palette has rules Witcher, I refuse to look washed out.”</p><p> </p><p>A muscle twitches in Geralt’s  jaw, and he refuses to let himself notice how the blue eyes practically glimmer with something akin to mirth or mischief from beneath the scarlet hood.  Grinding the words out, the words pass his lips with less bite than he truly wants to deliver at the moment.</p><p> </p><p>“Red is dangerous in the wild, and on the roads.  Red means money for men and blood for monsters.  You’re asking for us to be attacked.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe this will help you keep an eye on me, you say I‘m always running into trouble, not you won't be able to miss me...”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe you could take your colors and head to the next town yourself.”  The threat is empty, part of a well practiced dance, though a sliver of fear pinches in his gut.  The thought that he might actually leave in this costume, only to be set upon by man or monster without Geralt there to save his tail.  “I know you have other things.  I can see them right here.”  He jabs a finger against one of the saddle bags in irritation, where a scrap of dyed finery hangs just below the flap of a pocket. </p><p> </p><p>It’s after a one sided argument against irritated grunts and curt words that the bard gives in and turns his cloak inside out with an eye roll, a performance worthy flourish following like it’s some sort of parlor trick. This leaves the red interior being mostly hidden within the folds of material and behind the bard’s frame, peaking out like some sort of secret.  The Witcher can feel the tension seeping into the muscle around his shoulders, and his teeth, exaggerated points of fang like canines sinking into the inner flesh of his lower lip.  Wordlessly the Witcher climbs into the saddle, leading the way out of town.</p><p> </p><p>They make it till the town is just out of sight at their backs before Jaskier is strumming his lute, plucking clear notes and mumbling words under his breath.  Some of the rhymes are bawdy, while others make Geralt’s lips quirk from his position ahead of the bard.  He has a way with words, and it’s really no surprise that courts clamor to have him in their halls, to harness the closest thing to a siren that is still human.  </p><p> </p><p>When turning to check on his companions pace Geralt refuses to acknowledge that the deep black makes the bards skin look nearly porcelain in the afternoon light, that something possessive in him sings at the image of the bard in “his colors,” something he hadn't even considered until the bard had made the statement.  But dwelling on that wouldn't do them any good.  They were on rocky ground as is, or at least something that felt like it.  </p><p> </p><p>Something was brewing in whatever they were, friendship at best, but even that seemed too lax of a term for all that they did.  Some of it was for the sake of survival like sharing a tent and bedrolls for warmth, while other things such as shared rooms and bath water were more of a matter of convenience and proximity.  But Witcher’s were already unbalanced socially, and with his mutated appearance, Geralt found himself lacking in the knowledge of relationship or even friendship norms and expectations.  This didn't even factor in the interesting moment that had unfolded not even a week prior</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Less than a week ago, Jaskier had fallen into their shared bed at a tavern’s inn, voice hoarse and smelling of wine after a successful night of busking.  Geralt had heard the shifting of coin on the bedside table, had expected the bard to tell him, albeit loudly, about his success.  He had not counted on the scent of lust, lying heady and dark underneath the not unpleasant sweat of excitement that always seemed to cling to him when he was surrounded by a good audience.  Jaskier had fallen against him with a drunken stumble into the bed and half across Geralt’s torso, his head propped up on an arm as he looked at the Witcher in the low lamp light with a sad sort of smile.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh how I want you.”</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>It hadn't shocked him per se, He had smelt the arousal when Jaskier looked at him unclothed, tasted it on the back of his tongue during a long stretch that made his shirt ride up or his breeches to cling to his ass.  By the time Geralt’s mind had zeroed in on a response, Jaskier was snoring face tucked beneath the Witcher’s jaw.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The next morning had dawned and it was as if the night before had never happened.  Geralt had tried not to let his gaze linger too long, to let the feeling in his throat catch onto questions he wanted answered.  Jaskier flirted with tavern girls, charmed his way into pockets for coins and goods until it was time to say farewell to the town, where he walked down the road singing a song about a busty mermaid and a lusty sailor.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt still didn't know what to make of it, even days later.  He would have liked to say that it was far from his mind, that he was focused on other matters, but that would be too easy.  His sharp memory recalling how those blue eyes shone in the  light of the oil lamp, how the hair on Jaskier’s chest was just a touch darker than that atop his head, and that he knew just how far down that trail of hair ran.  How he too, had found those same words in the back of his throat, wanting to bite and taste and bruise that lovely unmarked skin.    </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>But he was a Witcher.  He was not allowed great loves or ballads, no gifts of affection, or material goods without a catch.  It soured the thoughts in his mind and he grit his teeth again, forcing himself out of his misery and back to the road before them.  Jaskier seemed to be working on something new under his breath, repeating it as if telling both his mind and mouth to remember, until odd words are blooming into full sentences, lain over a melody like a quilt on grass.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <span>A verse pulls at him, drawing up old insults and spat hatred like the cursed black water of a well, hidden below ground but certainly not gone.  Those times before the song of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>White Wolf</span>
  </em>
  <span> wound its way through the valley, dusting over the title from Blaviken so that lines of the epic were shouted instead of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Butcher.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  For all that they've been through, he has never felt fear from the bard due to his actions, to his less than human nature.  Part of him doesn't know if he could ever recover if it were to happen, to damage the only thing beside Roach and his own Mutations that he couldn't get rid of.  The song continues, but he ignores it, using the tune to filter out the constant noise that the wood around them puts off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“But I am weak, my love, and I am wanting.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt finds himself yanked out of any lingering thoughts, neck twisting to catch a glimpse of the bard on the road behind him, throat bared as he plucks at the strings of the instrument in his grasp and sings as if he is serenading the sun itself.  The words are too close and too far from the other night, and his hand not holding the reigns subconsciously clenches onto the pommel of the saddle until the leather creaks.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two full days of travel later and they find themselves reaching another town just a short while after sunset.  It seems to be a small mining outpost for the nearby hills, boasting a modest collection of homes and farms including tavern with an offer of rooms, and what looks like what would make a promising market during the light of day.  They forego hunting for the town’s message board in the dark, thinking they would find just as much information from the bar staff with the right amount of coin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier trades an agreement to perform for the night in return for a room, Geralt sliding the coin in to pay for their dinner and a few pitchers of ale.  The beer is tolerable, and the interior of the tavern is warm, a central fire pit in it’s center bringing a welcome air about the place.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Witcher leaves to get Roach settled for the evening, coming back just as the food is set atop their time-worn table Jaskier had selected in the corner.  Even without a recent fight, he’s burned through what little lunch they had on the road earlier, leading him to clean his plate swiftly.  The bard pushes his half touched plate at Geralt with a smile as he stands, leaving to talk to anyone that will listen in proximity to the bar.  The Witcher watches him until the plate is nearly cold before he finishes off the extra half a portion, now clear that the bard wont be coming back for it.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows his companion must still be hungry, has watched the softness formed from regular meals slowly vanishing from his flesh as their travels wore on.  It grates at his already raw nerves, especially present when focused on Jaskier.  Geralt could buy his own meals, and could provide for himself in the woods if need be. </span>
  <em>
    <span> He didn't need charity from a glorified jester,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the bitter thought whispers into the front of his mind and he can't even argue against it.  Similar thoughts churned like muddy river water, his mood darkening as he watched the brunet flit from table to table like a begging hound, in search of attention instead of scraps.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A crowd slowly forms, their visit falling at the end of the week, and soon Jaskier is atop a hastily cleared table, lute in hand and a sure stomp of his boots on the wood surface that brings the patrons to clap along or raise their glasses as they join in.  He starts with well known songs, well worn and favored with time, before continuing on with his own material, predictably introducing them to the self named epic retelling of their travels.  A few gold pieces are slid his way, and he thinks they might melt under his stare, under the rage over the mere suggestion that he might need the money of these people just to drink.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt wonders if this sour mood is a side effect of incoming winter, of the slow trek that it has taken up the last few weeks with only the far off sight of a familiar mountain range in the distance.  He slides into the expectation of Witcher behavior with little work after that, leaning into his corner and losing himself in his thoughts, pulled out only when Jaskier dances by to tell him that his brooding is “excellent this evening, perfect picture of a Witcher, really.”  His lips pull back to show less than human teeth, and the melodic laugh as the bard traipses off causes him to snap the handle off of his clay ale mug.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wants to go to their room, to stretch aching muscles and remove tight armor, but it would only be too long before Jaskier flirted with the wrong woman, and they found themselves tossed out onto the roads in the dark night.  He’s essentially an unseen leash, watching to make sure the bard keeps his cock out of trouble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier works his way through more music, heart beating in his ears as the energy of the tavern sweeps him up.  Geralt has given him nothing to work with for the evening, stewing over something he can't name, so the bard thinks he might be forced to use the lap of one of the gentlemen in attendance instead of his favored drape upon the Witcher’s shoulders.  He moves through one more song before he makes his choice, settling on a wall of a man who has been tossing him winks throughout his performance. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He slides into his lap like it has its own welcome sign to match the tavern’s front door, plucking away the first few strands before singing.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"The fairer sex, they often call it</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But her love's as unfair as a crook</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It steals all my reason</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Commits every treason</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of logic, with naught but a look”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A pout of his lips and he’s delivering a come hither look he learned from a well off concubine half a decade ago.  The men in the tavern groan throwing some well meant jests to the barmaids with a chorus of names.  Some of the men recieve a towel to the face, others get their own sinful look from a wife and a slap to the arm or back of the head.  Jaskier continues through the verses until he finds himself planted in the lap of his chosen audience member, leg kicked out with a perfect  point of his foot.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He misjudges the bend of his spine and feels himself falling, though the impact doesn't come.  His breath hitches in the middle of a verse as a strong arm supports the small of him back, tilting him back to rights.  Before he can move on there’s a crash of wood, and all eyes fall to the now empty corner booth, chair tipped over while the table shudders from a now absent source of force, only the retreating back of a black clad figure.  The following slam of a door in the inn above draws a pause before Jaskier can force a smile back into his expression, standing with a flourish and a bow.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Thank you all!  You’re much too kind.  If you will give me a quick moment, I seem to have forgotten something in my room.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He collects the small drawstring bag from his makeshift stage, surprised at the weight of the coin hidden within its tanned hide pouch.  Jaskier keeps it in hand, and with his lute in the other, stalks towards the stairs to see what’s been unfortunate enough to take the brunt of Geralt’s temper this time.  Forcing his steps to slow, the bard makes sure he gives the Witcher enough time to realize he’s coming.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier finds the door is just barely ajar when he stops outside of  their room, the latch not able to find its place within the span of being slammed into the jam.  His boots carry him over the threshold with little trepidation, anticipating a foul mood within, but knowing Geralt wouldn't physically take it out on him.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just verbally </span>
  </em>
  <span>whispers his mind quietly.  He sends the thought away with a shake of his head, raising an eyebrow in silent question as soon as he spots Geralt.  He’s pacing in what is considered the washroom, the upper half of his face visible over the top of the ancient dressing screen.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier assumes that he scents him, as his head seems to move on its own volition for those golden eyes to stare at the bard, nostrils flaring.  He makes an irritated noise and stalks over to a small table in the corner, going through his things until he’s all but settled in to passive aggressively sharpen his weapons.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Want to tell me why you're acting like a rabid wolf?  Your joyful disposition has been on a steeper than normal decline through the evening.”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt makes one of his usual non-committal </span>
  <em>
    <span>hmm</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s, and Jaskier feels his own irritation begin to bubble up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now I know you're a man of little words, but I think we should both agree that you owe me an explanation for whatever that was downstairs.”  He lets himself move closer, dropping the bag with his earnings next to the steel sword on the table.  “Because I was well on the way to buying you a bath until you interrupted.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a beat of silence, and Jaskier thinks the Witcher wont even respond until he does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Interrupted?”  His voice is low and cold, a dark humor creeping in at the edges.  “What, interrupted you from warming the laps of random men?  From finding your next bit of free entertainment off of the roads?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bard steps back as if slapped, a fury burring in his bright eyes.  Geralt watches as though is isn't in charge of himself, as though it wasn't his words that caused that shift of emotion.  “You forget that I know what jealousy looks like on you Geralt.  That I know you more than anyone save those at Ker Moran.”  Jaskier’s voice is hollow, though he quickly cuts himself off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His laugh is self pitying, and Jaskier hates how wet it sounds to his own ears.  “Did you ever think to consider that I call you my muse for a reason?  That my songs are inspired by you?  That-”  He breaks off with a frustrated noise.  “That I wrote these verses of your company?  What does that say of your treatment of me?  Because I may have changed it to a female, but that’s only because I feel that you have it hard enough from people as is.”   There’s something to read into there, but the Witcher is already charging forward with another biting remark.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So that’s in then, you're just taking your penance to trudge across the Valley with me?”  His lip curls into a snarl that resembles a wolf all too well.  Geralt shoves himself to his feet, pale hair wild and golden eyes blazing like flames.  “Don't act like I haven't noticed.  What you tell me are simply acts of kindness.  Do you think I've lived this long without someone trying to tame me, to sooth the white wolf until he can be collared?”  The words are biting, though he can’t stop himself.  “You wish for me to wait while I'm not fighting, to leave me at the hearth while you follow your cock.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>A furrow forms in the bard’s brow.  “What are you talking about?”  He sounds genuinely puzzled, but the Witcher is already invested, decision and reason predetermined in his mind.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“The extra food, the tending of wounds, the mending of armor.”  Geralt gestures to the overstuffed bags in the corner.  “Your collection of plants and flowers you waste your time turning into salves.”  His words are a spit, and it's like he can only watch as this unfolds before him, as if he is viewing the exchange and no longer in control.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Well on your way to buying me a bath?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I can afford my own baths.  I don't need your charity!”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>A flush colors the bard’s cheeks, but there’s no hint of shame or embarrassment, he almost looks as if he's trying to keep himself from being pleased that Geralt noticed, emotions fighting in the clench of his jaw and the crease of his brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“It's called being cared for Geralt.”  His words are quiet, though he knows the other can hear them easily.  “I know my affections can't be returned, I had hoped that by caring for you, it would be less of a bother for you to know about my feelings.”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A thick swallow, the sounds of a stomach churning in the still room as a deep breath is taken.  “I- I apologize.  I’ll keep my distance until the next city we reach.  You can be rid of me there, perhaps it’s time for me to return to the court.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Geralt can only watch as those familiar blue eyes grow glacially cold, the blue seeming to grow faint, losing their light.  There’s the feeling of ice within his veins at the prospect of the bard leaving him, returning to the vile and vicious rules of court.  No, he couldn’t let that happen.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I don't understand.”  </span>
  <em>
    <span>A lie.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>But one he hoped he could draw out, use it to buy time to figure out some way to mend this.  Jaskier cuts off his next words with a shout.  </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I care about you-you brute!  Probably more than I should and apparently more than you can comprehend, but as you have so mockingly told me before, I can fall in love with anyone.”  He’s fearless as he stalks closer, jabbing a finger into his chest, pressing against black leather armor.  </span>
</p><p><br/>
<span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Apparently</span>
  </em>
  <span> that includes pissy Witchers, though I wish, I wish I had had the option this time.”  A bitter laugh that cuts into the Witcher.  ”But it was foolish of me to think that I could bring the courting of civilization to a man in the wilds who thinks kindness is the same thing as taming a wolf!”  A single tear spills down his cheek.  “Forget it.  Keep your one man pack, and see where you end up.”</span>
  <span></span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span>
  <span>With that, Jaskier snatches his cloak from the pile of saddlebags, letting his feet carry him away from his heart.  He’s all too aware that the only thing that follows him is the noise of falling coins as his nights earnings spill to the floor at Geralt's feet. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's rare for me to finish something that isnt a one shot and get it posted, so the updates will come over the next few days!  Leave me comments or yell at me if you want!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jaskier isn't surprised when he isn't followed, but it still stings.  The realization that his words fell once again upon deaf, or worse, uncaring ears.  It wasn’t worth slamming the door so he had bolted from the room like a coward, took the stairs three at a time until he was shoving past drunken tavern goers who whispered as he passed.  Some poor soul took mercy and opened the door for him before he had to fight with it, sending him out onto the rickety porch and into the cool night air.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, he kept running as wood planks turned to dirt road below his feet, not even slowing as he passed the stables at the tree line and Roach with her noise of curiosity.  He ran until his lungs ached and his legs burned, not allowing himself to falter until the town’s minuscule lighting was out of sight behind him.  Jaskier ran and ran and forced himself still further until he was forced to stop by his own body, bringing up wine and what little he ate of their dinner onto the forest floor with the lingering taste of bile on his tongue.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier spits onto the forest floor, coughing to clear his burning throat after a wounded noise seems to tear itself from his vocal cords.  He has to lean against a tree for support as a wave of dizziness sweeps over him, and part of him hates the fact that he could tell what kind of tree it is just by the bark, despite the oppressing darkness he finds himself in.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>All thanks to his time accompanying Geralt</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks bitterly.  A shaft of moonlight can be seen cutting through the dense treetops ahead of his stopping place, so he sets off in that direction, treading carefully over roots half buried in dark earth and biting thorns, preferring the light to the darkness at his back.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Great punches the wall twice in quick succession once the frantic footfalls leave his range of hearing, the wood giving easily below his fist with a resounding </span>
  <em>
    <span>CRACK! </span>
  </em>
  <span>as a myriad of emotions he wishes he knew how to dissect  threaten to over take him, as though they would soon spill out of his chest like water in an over full dam.  Life had been easier all those years ago, treated less than human, a distance between him and others, no attachment.  Now people wanted to talk, to hear his stories, some showing a wariness yes, but no fear in asking their questions.  All because of the fucking bard.  The smell of copper directs his attention to the splinters of wood in his knuckles, though the pain is oddly absent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Footsteps on the stairs pull at his attention, a body in the doorway, a target for the building rage, the one who had touched </span>
  <em>
    <span>his bard</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  He stalks out of the doorway before the man can approach their room, closing in until the unlucky soul is backing up against the opposite wall, smelling of fear and ale but holding his ground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know he was taken, honest.  But he turned me down after you left!”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt rolls his eyes with a noise of dismissal and moves to retreat to their room, slamming the door on stumbling words.  He has no need for wordy excuses, and knows it’s better to not spill the blood of what is technically an innocent man.  His instincts hate that decision</span>
  <em>
    <span>, urging him to kill, so others know that his claim has been made. </span>
  </em>
  <span> The man waits outside, his heart racing until his fist makes contact with the door with a solid bang, one hammering blow after another.  He starts speaking through the silence that spills across the threshold after the door remains shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>”Look, there’s something out in those woods.  People go out and they don’t come back.  You can be pissed all you want, no right being jealous for something that isn’t there, but it’ll be no good if he’s dead!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt is moving before the man even tells him </span>
  <em>
    <span>people don’t come back,</span>
  </em>
  <span> grabbing his silver sword off the table with the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>something in the woods</span>
  </em>
  <span> ringing in his ears.   He hears the door close behind him, the lock falling Into place, clears the steps easily with unsteady footsteps of the drunk behind him, and the crowd parts before him like he’s carrying a plague.  The air is clean outside, and it takes him longer than he would have liked to find a lead through what was probably a trail of the bards scent, before the leaves were blown astray by autumn crisp wind.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A stretch of tracking that feels like hours but is likely only minutes leads him to the woodline surrounding the village.  He had had a spark of something similar to hope that Jaskier would be with Roach, safe and smelling of hay, though the mare simply gave him a dirty look upon his encroaching of her rest in an empty stable.  Geralt paces at the edge of the trees behind the stables before he hones in on the remains of a trail, one step beckoning his attention to a stray hair caught in the bark of a low hanging branch.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The scent of varying emotions blooms against the roof of his mouth, burning in the back of his throat, closely trailed by the stark taste of salt.  Yards later, a thorn has snagged a thread of scarlet, smelling of herbs and their bedrolls.  Minuscule pieces of a trail slowly reveal themselves, pulling usually quick tracking to a crawling pace, a firm wind stirring the leads ahead of him into disorder.  He loses track of how many times he has to retrace his steps, the deep growth left by summer proving a blessing and a curse.  It’s easier to see movement, to hear the nearby life of the wood, but details of scent and direction are lost within thick ivy and fallen limbs.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s the scent of smaller creatures in the wood and the sounds of larger ones.  He can hear something massive moving a mile or so away, too large for anything that would naturally belong in these woods, so he picks up his pace.  If he’s lucky, whatever it is won't be downwind, won't smell easy prey and live blood.  Geralt doesn't let himself think about how bad his luck could be.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The moon was bright for its location within the phases, the pale glow shining through swift moving clouds and naked canopies of trees growing dormant for fall.  Each one of Jaskier’s steps was a cacophonous crunch no matter what he did, so he just hoped that moving slow would sound calm to lingering predators.  Like a deer, but with a stumble, no that was bad, that meant injury, and injury meant food.  Jaskier muttered a quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck.”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Even with a careful step, he couldn't help but trip over one thing or another, nearly losing his shoe to a slick patch of moss on a stone underfoot. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>There’s a fine layer of sweat covering his skin by the time he breaks through the tree line on what might be the other side of the wood.  He really hasn't been paying attention, and this was a fair ways off of the road they had traveled in on.  Thick layers of undergrowth and fallen leaves gave way to dense grass beneath his boots, the brush of what appeared to be a clearing coming up to his knees and even higher in other places.  Wild flowers moved in the night air, most closed up until sunrise, save for a few nigh blooms that shone in hues of ivory and pearl.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The moon cast its light still further ahead of him, illuminating great dark shapes that made his heart stutter, a tremor of fear taking hold of his muscles before he realized the shape was still. Not really a positive sign, but something that large would have given some shift even from simple breathing if it had been living.  Jaskier picked his way closer, checking each step before placing his full weight, not wanting to tread on some sleeping creature.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The massive form was apparently a collection of massive stones upon closer inspection, seeming smaller in person than the distance led him to believe. It's only a small trial to climb atop one of the shorter ones on the edge of the formation, the stone set in what seemed to be the center of the newfound meadow.  Jaskier scrambles to a larger stone, and then another, settling in with what he likes to think is a decent vantage point of the vegetation below.  While the night is cool, he feels confident enough that he can last until morning without becoming something’s meal, perhaps follow his path back to the inn with the help of the sun.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The center stone was  the largest, and his stopping point for the night.  It was surrounded by clusters of smaller rocks, those of which might have been boulders at one point until the weather bore them into the earth.  Some whimsical part of him thinks of a giant’s table, surrounded with stools, though the vision of whimsy is quickly swept away with his current emotional turmoil.  He grumbles to himself about Witchers and their baggage, huffing as he wraps the cloak around his body.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was an idiot.  A dramatic and over reacting peacock, just like Geralt so often called him.  But just as a good wave of self loathing appeared, so did anger.  Geralt had never returned his flirting, his affectionate tests of tactile boundaries, so what right did he have to storm out in a huff because Jaskier delivered his attentions elsewhere?  It was his barding that allowed them to visit inns as often as they did, the songs paying for the hot baths that he knew the Witcher rarely allowed himself.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bard let out a huff of irritation, and then a sigh of pure melancholy.  After stilling, it’s all too easy to notice the chill of the night air, forcing Jaskier to shift until a portion of the cloak becomes a barrier between the cold stone and his rear end.  A breeze blows through the clearing, rustling grasses and shaking the trees of the wood line, but isn't too bothersome. With a sigh, Jaskier allows himself to lay on his side atop the stone, whispering to the stars as he wishes for morning to come sooner.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey look, I actually updated something.  Things are getting heated, and I have the rest of the work planned out with some chunks already finished.  Drop a comment or some kudos, as that's my motivation source.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt swears as another low branch catches him across the cheek like one of Vesemir’s switches pulled from a punishment in his youth, the bite of copper seeping into the air to accompany a drop of blood, though he doesn’t feel the skin break.  The woods offer too little information on the bard, and too much for the rest of his senses, the myriad of heartbeats and scents leading to a resilient ache born of stress blooming deep behind his eyes.  There’s sporing fungus atop damp earth, the over sweet rot of fallen leaves, the scent and far off bellow of a stag in rut.  </p><p>He spies a break in the wood before him, and doubles his pace, sword bouncing at his back, only making it a few yards before he’s nearly knocked prone from the sudden scent of dragon, or something closely related to it. </p><p>The reptilian trail is relatively fresh, and a look to his right shows gouges in the bark of surrounding trees, thick lines that come from the blunt edges of heavy scales against a stationary surface, the gleam of a scale beside his boot in the dark.  Geralt places it in his pocket.  He can't hear the thing, but knows in his gut it’s behind the mass of movement he heard shifting earlier in the wood.  A few steps forward give him another piece of Jaskier’s trail, and Geralt takes off for what appears to be a clearing through low hanging branches and rising weeds.  Normally, he’d be striving for stealth, but his luck after two days of travel and little meditation means he’s feeling less than hopeful both of them would be able to leave the wood alive.  He shouts, startling a roost of sleeping birds, stone rough voice cutting into the still night air.  </p><p>“Jaskier!”   </p><p>The Witcher crashes through the woodline with a yell, sending calls of insects in the grasses to a hush, his boots chasing some sort of rodent fleeing from their nests in the tall grass beneath his feet.  If the beast was that close that soon, it’s likely already scented the bard, and himself with the way the day’s luck is running.  There’s no chance of surprising a beast like that on it’s home ground, and he itches to unstrap the sword from his back, ground himself through the blade in his hand.  If he can get to the bard and back, they may be able to avoid the creature until he can come back better prepared.  As it is, he’s got a silver sword and his smaller combat kit he reserves for sudden service calls, not even knowing what potions are clinking against each other within the leather pouch at his thigh.</p><p>The field is a mess of untamed growth and he can feel burrs alongside thorns grabbing and pulling at his clothing as he forces his way through. There's a cluster of stone in the center, maybe a long sunken henge, a possible vantage point he thinks.  When Geralt’s eyes catch on a splash of scarlet that flares through the darkness and shines like crushed rubies in the moonlight, his breath catches for the span of a slow beat of his mutated heart.</p><p>He sets off at a run once more, muscles working in an easy glide through a sprint, ignoring thorny weeds and rough ground until he’s leaping onto the first stone he can reach. </p><p>Jaskier had watched Geralt from his prone position on the stone, the glint of silver beneath the moon, the shock of white hair emerging from the darkness of the wood.  He’d watched the Witcher investigating something just on the edge of the wood line, seeming to be in no hurry to find the bard.   The bard honestly felt a bit too numb to be hurt about it, though he hadn't expected to feel so cold.    </p><p>Geralt must catch his scent because he stops suddenly, turns towards Jaskier and seems to sag as if some great weight has been dropped from his shoulders.  Jaskier waits without reaction.  He waits for Geralt to cross the clearing, and waits still as The Witcher uses a grip on the first stone to vault to the next one, and the following stone as he makes his way closer to the center of the formation.  He waits in silence as Geralt finds a seat at his side.  Jaskier is going to wait until the thick headed Witcher speaks first for once.  </p><p>The bard stays curled upon the largest of the stones, wrapped within his cloak, smelling of tears and exertion, but not injury.  It’s all too easy for Geralt to reach his side, and he’s hesitating only a moment before his hand is brushing carefully along the bundle, assuring himself that the bard is unharmed.</p><p>“Jaskier?”</p><p>His mortal heart is beating at a tempo not fit for sleep, but the bard ignores him, though Geralt feels as if he deserves the silent treatment.  As fitting as it is, he is less than interested in wasting what may already be borrowed time.  </p><p>“Jaskier?  Jaskier!  We need to go.  Now.”  The last word is bitten out between sharp teeth, his irritation of the entire situation feeling as though it's caught up in the muscles of his jaw.  There’s no time to argue about what happened, to pick apart the last few hours.</p><p>The man in focus bolts up right with the shout, flailing with heaving breaths until he finally focuses on the Witcher at his side.  He seems to flounder at the level of his voice, but the Witcher is talking over him before he can even open his mouth to pose a question.</p><p>“We need to go.”</p><p>Jaskier’s mind is fuzzy from emotion and weariness, but he feels the corners of his mouth turn down.  The words flying free from his tongue before he can attempt to swallow them.</p><p>“Oh.  So now it’s we?”</p><p>“Bar-”  He pauses, forcing himself to still his rage.  “Jaskier.  There isn't time for-”</p><p>And suddenly, it’s enough, his breaking point cresting like a wave against a stone barrier.</p><p>“There never is with you Geralt!”</p><p>Jaskier shoves himself into an upright, if not a slightly stumbling position, cursing the stupid bolder for having the gaul to be uneven and bolder shaped.  He picks his way across to the next stone, now slightly more treacherous with late night dew beginning to settle, making the surface slick beneath his boots.   </p><p>“We will do this later.”  The words are bitten out between bared teeth, fangs catching the moonlight with an inhuman gleam.  “There is not time for this.”</p><p>The bard gives him a rude gesture that Geralt is sure he learned in Skellige.  But before he can grind a word out, Jaskier has started into one of his tangents.  Not necessarily undeserved, but certainly poorly timed.</p><p>“You know what?  No.  You don't just get to act like this and then order me about. I won-  No!  I refuse to let it happen.  You may speak to me plainly, perhaps with a more caring manner, perhaps I will listen then!</p><p>Jaskier picks his way across the rest of the stones, all too aware of the Witcher’s quicker tread behind him.  Stupid man, with his stupid grace.</p><p>A sigh that sounds more like a rockslide sounds all too close behind him, Geralt struggling to find patience.  To not make this worse.  </p><p>“This place isn't safe.  We can talk all you like back at the inn.”</p><p>Jaskier has heard that assurance too many times to believe it at this point.</p><p>Geralt catches the gleam of blue eyes over a red cloaked shoulder, but just as he thinks the bard will cave, he catches sight of a pink tongue petulantly stuck out from between rosy lips.  Unable to repress a snarl, Geralt skips the next step as Jaskier slides down the last stone to the ground, leaping across the distance and finally finding the end of his patience.  </p><p>“Damn it Jaskier!”</p><p>Geralt fists that ridiculous cape in his grip and yanks the bard close until his mouth meets the other, noses bumping until he tilts his head just so, licking into Jaskier’s mouth as he gasps against him.  It’s reckless and stupid and give it fifteen minutes and he’ll hate himself, but Jaskier is still in his arms when he pulls back, blinking through heavy lids that fail to hide wide blown pupils in a thin pool of blue.  Jaskier has a flush about his cheeks, his skin warm enough for Geralt to feel a hint of it with the leather gloved hand cupping his cheek.</p><p>“I-We can talk.  But not here.  Please.”</p><p>Their lips brush as he speaks, and Jaskier closes the distance this time, pressing close with a quick pulse and a warm touch.  At least he isn't yelling anymore, muses the Witcher.  The kiss is all too distracting as he growls into it, nipping at plush lips as Jaskier gives a fierce tug to his hair.  It’s almost as if time freezes around them, the cool night air making each touch seem like flames licking against their skin.  Jaskier sighs, pressing a kiss to a scar at the corner of Geralt’s jaw as he catches his breath.  That animalistic energy is simmering under his scalded skin, thrashing against his weakening resolve.  The need to take and taste and touch driving somewhere deep in the back of his skull.  </p><p>Geralt’s control slips.  He shoves himself into Jaskier’s space, pressing his back to one of the stones, taking the thick material of his cloak in both hands to pull their bodies together.  For all he presses, Jaskier pushes back with equal measure, kissing back with groping hands and biting teeth that have Geralt growling into the heat of his mouth.  Drifting away, he loses himself at the hollow below the bard’s ear, inhaling the heady mixture of sweat and want that seems to just pour from his flesh. </p><p> </p><p>An inhuman scream echoes through the night, and Geralt is reminded of the danger all too quickly.  He reflexively yanks Jaskier closer, shoving him behind his armored body.  The Witcher senses catch motion in the grasses and he turns his head, seeing a large shape move quickly through the growth, too quick to be anything easy to kill, the thought confirmed at the sudden scent of dragon.  </p><p>“Fuck”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Canon compliant monster slaying/violence</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Canon compliant monster slaying/violence present</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>An inhuman scream echoes through the night, and Geralt is reminded of the danger all too quickly.  He reflexively yanks Jaskier closer, shoving him behind his armored body.  The Witcher senses catch motion in the grasses and he turns his head, seeing a large shape move quickly through the growth, too quick to be anything easy to kill, the thought confirmed at the sudden scent of dragon. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck”</span>
  </em>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s little protection for the bard, so Geralt backs up until he can shove him through a thin space between the boulders they were pressed against moments before, sending him sprawling in the center of the cluster of stones.  It’s a tight space, but it will keep him out of reach, and there’s a path or two to escape if need be.  He tosses the tail of the cloak over his head, eyes tracking the beast in the grasses.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Turn that damn cloak inside out and stay there.  Move when you need to, but don't leave these rocks until it’s dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Gera-”</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Witcher is already moving away, drawing his sword like he’s been itching to since the bard started flirting in the tavern.  No sooner does he have his weapon in hand when something large and solid strikes him in the chest, sending him flying.  He’s able to control a majority of his fall, rolling into it until he skids into contact with something solid within the grasses, finding it to be a fallen tree when he rights himself.  </span>
  <span>A sibilant hiss telegraphs the next attack, and this time his blade is ready.  A serpentine head strikes through the grass, and Geralt strikes with an overhead swing, already knowing that it will do nothing against the plate like scales across the back of the beast’s neck.  It’s both an advantage as well as a hindrance to see what he’s up against.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an Ampithere, juvenile but no less dangerous, shining bronze beneath the moonlight.  What it lacks in limbs, it more than makes up for with wings as it rears back away from the silver of his sword, and Geralt knows why people have been going missing.  Ampithere are cliff dwellers, their great wings giving them the advantage of height from where they may find vulnerability on the ground.  This one has succumbed to just that.  The wings of the creature cannot fully spread, hindered and misshapen with poorly healed injuries and scars line its body, mingling with random patches of missing scales.  Downed like this, the creature is likely starved and desperate for anything it can manage to get between its jaws.  The beast screams at him, pulling his full focus back to the fight.  Though grounded, an unprepared Witcher has little advantage over a creature of this size.  He tosses the sign for </span>
  <em>
    <span>igni</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the direction of soft belly scales, holding his ground as the reptilian body coils in pain fueled rage before disappearing into the grasses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't have to be a tactician to know he’s outmatched without real preparation, so his gloved hands paw at the pouch at his waist, pulling a vial free, then a second after he thinks back to the bard hidden among the rocks.  His gut clenches at the idea of Jaskier seeing him like this, so soon after their spat in the inn, but a renewed shriek within the grasses makes the decision for him.  </span>
  <span>A cork pulled free with teeth, inky dark with specks of silver liquid sliding down his throat with the tang of herbs and poison.  Chased by another, bitter and the color of chaos within the glass.  It’s pushing it, but he’s reaching and uncorking a vial filled with something akin to mercury before he can even question it, his heart hammering as this final potion enters his blood stream.  </span>
  <span>Immediately his vision sharpens, his muscles flex, and the world shifts. Full moon and Tawny Owl mingle within his blood, chased by Maribor Forest.  The wolf at the center of his core seems to howl, itching for a fight.  The old masters had taught them enough about the potions, about vitality and stamina, the virility that can follow the combination of the first two potions.  The adrenaline from the final potion hits, and it sends his skin crawling, his heart racing.  Unable to stop it, he howls into the night air, baring his teeth as his foe rounds before him for another strike.</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s still by no means a simple fight, but he finds himself better matched as the monster comes for him time and time again.  An Ampithere at full strength would have been using the air to its advantage, no doubt swooping down with open jaws and sharp teeth.  This one doesn't have that option.  It's only a matter of time until Geralt finds himself pinned and bound atop the brush covered earth, the length of the beast’s massive tail constricting around his middle like one of its more serpentine relatives.  </span>
  <span>There’s a scream from the rocks, his name ringing clear in a tone of distress as it pierces the night air.  It’s enough to get the focus off of him, a slight relaxation of muscles as the beast looks for the unseen threat.  Geralt takes advantage of his position to wrestle his arm from where it’s pinned, hesitation absent as he shoves the blade up above him, the silver cutting through the soft armor under the creatures.  He feels the blade scrape bone, cutting through thick cartilage of the bottom jaw until Geralt feels the resistance and following give as the blade drives the rest of the way through the roof of the mouth to deliver the killing blow.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood pours onto his face and shoulders like incoming rain as he drags most of his blade free, though he manages to shove his way free of the now lax coiled length of the Ampithere's body.  Geralt is panting and dirty, scraped from claws and brambles but he forces himself to his feet, using a booted foot to help separate the sword from the skull.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The potion is still running strong within him, leaving him itching for another fight, for something to draw out the stored energy of the poison in him and burn away the feeling of something crawling beneath his skin.  He shakes like a dog shedding water as he makes his way back to the stones, heart skipping a beat when he sees the bard emerging from his hiding place.  Jaskier's</span>
  <span> feet barely manage to touch the earth before Geralt is striding up to him, pressing his back to stone and kissing the air from his lungs.  The revelation from the earlier kiss like a balm to frayed emotions.  His mouth tastes of blood and herbs, and Jaskier soon has to strike the Witcher in the chest to give him a moment to breathe.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Easy now, not all of us are masters at holding our breath.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Geralt regards him with a grumble, and Jaskier takes the moment to really look at him, unfamiliar with the stark veins and the dark eyes that come from his Witcher concoctions.  He turns his pale face under the scrutiny, upper lip curling to show a shining and sharp fang.  </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Geralt?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The witcher seems to shake himself, and he takes a step back as if it pains him.  Jaskier reaches out, but stops at the growl of warning.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <b>“</b>
  <span>What do you want Geralt, what do you need.  Let me help.”  He pleads, and Geralt is weak for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adrenaline from the recent run in with a dragon takes over and his voice quivers, not from fear, but lust, anticipation, desire, and a spark of </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Jaskier makes sure Geralt sees him step closer, watching as he moves away from the stones and into his personal space.  Large hands capture his cheeks, that pupiless stare regarding him.  So Jaskier does what he does in any situation.  He talks until his Witcher can respond through the feral energy pulsing within his very bones.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“That sounded like a ballad worthy fight you know, I’m ashamed that I spent it amidst a hunk of stone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face is still held between the Witcher’s calloused hands, though his attention has left his face to scent at the length of his throat, open mouth inhalations pulling in everything that words can't.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you need Geralt?”  The bard asks again, softer this time as he cards a hand through tangled hair, and Geralt feels something chip away in his control.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  His voice is like that of a sword on a grindstone, rough from the shouting of the fight, deepened with desire.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Okay.”  His smile is like the sun cutting through the night.  “I’m right here, safe, all yours.”  </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Witcher presses him until his back hits the boulder once more, keeping to this strange dance of one step forward and two steps back.  He crowds into his space until their lips are a hair's breadth from touching, passing touches to anything he can, to assure himself Jaskier is whole before him.  Geralt jerks himself back until there's only an inch between their bodies, warring with the wants of his instinct and his mind.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He exhales heavily, their breath mingling in a mist between them in the cool night.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Jaskier.”  A swallow, gritting teeth.  “You have to run, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you have to go.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Geralt, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't be silly</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  His head is tilted at a ridiculous angle, looking at Geralt as if he is some harmless pup.  “I won't leave you like this, you've told me how bad it feels, what can happen without something to burn the potion off.”  He makes himself reach up slowly as Geralt returns with his touches, easing his small hands up to cup the Witcher’s sharp edge of his jaw, stroke at his cheeks with the calloused thumbs of a musician.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Please-”  Dry lips on him with just a graze, the copper rich taste of blood.  “Let me-”  </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>It takes a grip in pale hair to still him but Jaskier kisses him with earth crumbling gentleness, and Geralt is lost.  A possessive hold on the back of a thin neck keeps the bard exactly where he wants him as he's pressing closer and closer until the bard is crying out in pleasure, the calls swallowed as pointed teeth nip at pink flesh.  Their hips roll together, the strain of heavy balls and his thickening cock leading him to hump at one of the bard’s spread legs.  He could come like this, likely more than once, until his trousers became a lost cause.  The Witcher presses their foreheads together, eyes shut tight for will.  For something to keep him from ruining this with his own selfish need.  The musk of arousal and blood in the air does nothing to help his resolve, only serving to wind up his own need to rut against something more than Jaskier’s silk clad thigh.  </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You have to get back.  Roach can guard you in the stables.”  The words are getting more difficult, the lupine driven blood raging with the desire to claim and own and mate.  “There's too much of it in my veins, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't-”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>A sentence bitten off in the cool night air.  “I don't want to hurt you.”  Everything is screaming at him to stay with the other, not to send him off into the night.   “I'll find you tomorrow Jaskier.  <em>Please!</em>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt!”  Irritation is bleeding through now.  “I’m not leaving you.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He turns away and shoves the bard in the direction of the small village, knowing as long as he runs straight he’ll make it back to the stables and their supplies within, that if anything gets him first, he’ll know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go to the tavern!  Run!”<br/>
</span>
</p>
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